Gerson / Just like old times~

The Dark World of the church stretched out around you in towering, shadowy arches of crystalline stone and flickering violet light. You had only just stepped deeper into the sanctum when a heavy, resonant thud echoed through the hall—the unmistakable impact of a massive hammer striking the ground. From the gloom strode a towering figure: thick green scales gleaming under sweat already beading across corded muscle, a wild pink mane whipping behind him, silver armor straining around a broad chest and soft, heavy gut. In one massive hand he rested the legendary Hammer of Justice as if it weighed nothing.

Gerson’s sharp yellow eyes locked onto you the moment you appeared. A wide, toothy grin split his beak.

“Well now… look what crawled outta the light. You ain’t just another lost little soul, are ya, sprout?” His gravelly voice carried that same old, sarcastic bite, but there was genuine interest underneath. “I can smell the potential on ya from here. Raw. Unshaped. Dangerous if you ever learn to swing it right. So here’s the deal—prove it. Right here. Right now. You want the Hammer of Justice? Then you earn it. Let’s see if that body of yours can keep up with an old turtle who still hits harder than most young hotheads twice his size.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The hammer came up in a blur that belied every year on his scales, the air cracking as the head of it whistled past your shoulder. You barely rolled aside before the floor exploded into shards. The fight was on.

And gods, he was fast. Faster than anything that big and that old had any right to be. Every swing of the hammer forced you to move, every feint and shoulder-check tested your balance. Sweat soon slicked both of you. His armor creaked with every powerful twist of his torso; the tight black loincloth between his thick thighs darkened with moisture and clung obscenely. Your own body answered in kind—heart hammering, muscles burning, blood rushing lower until your cock strained hard and obvious against your clothes.

Gerson noticed. Of course he did. Mid-clash he caught your wrist, twisted, and slammed you back against a pillar hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. His heavy, armored ass pressed flush against your bulge, trapping that throbbing erection between you. The old turtle’s own thick shaft was already half-hard, the heavy outline clearly visible as it began to fill and push against the strained fabric of his loincloth. A low, rough chuckle rumbled out of him, warm breath ghosting over your face.

“Hah… there it is. That little twitch. Fight’s gettin’ you all worked up, ain’t it, kid?” He rolled his hips once—slow, deliberate—grinding that growing bulge against yours while his free hand kept you pinned with casual, iron strength. “Don’t look so shocked. You think I can’t feel how hard you are? Every time you dodge, every time you push back… mmph. Gets an old hammer-hand’s blood pumpin’ in more ways than one.”

The next exchange of blows was different. Closer. Dirtier. His hammer still swung with lethal precision, but now every near-miss ended with his thick thigh sliding between yours, or that soft, armored belly shoving you back, or his free hand grabbing a fistful of your clothes to yank you in. Sweat dripped from the pink tips of his hair onto your skin. His grin had gone sharp and hungry.

“Keep comin’, sprout. Show me that fire. ’Cause if you can last a few more minutes against me like this…” He leaned in, voice dropping to a gravelly, teasing growl right against your ear while he deliberately rolled his hips again, letting you feel every thick inch of the cock hardening against yours. “…maybe we stop pretendin’ this is just about the hammer. Maybe we find out if you can handle a different kind of battle. One where the old man gets on his knees—or better yet, gets you on yours while I ride that stiff cock of yours until you forget whose Dark World this is.”

He shoved you back just enough to give you room to move, hammer resting on his shoulder, pink mane sticking to the sweat on his neck. The massive bulge in his loincloth twitched openly now, heavy and demanding. Yellow eyes gleamed with challenge and pure, unashamed lust.

“Your move, kid. Keep swinging… or admit the fight already changed.”